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Kimberly Quinn Smith
Tumbleweeds, Green Chili, and Broke Back Mountain ( cross country trip, part 3 ) I was still dwelling on the fact that I had had to learn the life lesson yet again that one should never judge a banana by its peel, as I was far more fond of Oklahoma than I would ever admit to anyone. What a cool state and it had one of the nicest museums I had ever been to. That will teach me. It is amazing how the minute that you cross a border into another state that it looks immediately different. We left the beige rolling hills of Oklahoma, with its windy streams and shadows of a once valiant people hunting, dancing, and caring for their young. We were now crossing over into Texas. I figured that this should not be so bad as we were only going through the top part referred to as the pan handle and not that big, fat, wide part, that looked like it would take a month or two even if we exceeded the speed limit. The states are way bigger out here, somewhat endless actually. The very second we crossed the border into Texas it got flat and dusty. Little tumble weed bushes were blowing all over the place. You could see for miles because it was so flat and there was nothing, nothing but lots of power lines and unsupervised cows. There were no people and no houses, not even for the cows. This was different from Vermont where the red barn has become a state trademark. Texas cows apparently don’t need shelter. I couldn’t help to think of how easy it would be to hit it big if you were in the business of cow stealing. There was absolutely no one for miles and miles. Of course, the flip side of that is that some angry Texan could be on the horizon with an acute pair of binoculars and a shot gun and you wouldn’t be able to see him either. We pulled over, at the request of our oldest daughter so that she could get a picture of “Texas” with its desolate look and freely blowing tumbleweeds. Just as with the other states where we saw nothing for miles and miles, we eventually landed upon lights and buildings, another oasis. There was one steak house after another, and advertisements for professional rodeos. I would love to see a rodeo. Unfortunately we had to trudge forward as I had made a reservation in Bernalillo, New Mexico and I had pre-paid for it on priceline.com. Priceline.com should really give out those little punch cards like they do at Subway, where you buy five hotels and then get the sixth one free. We’ve earned it. We stopped at a Dairy Queen about half way across the pan handle. There was no one in there but us and five people working behind the counter. Maybe they got an inside tip on some buses coming through later. There was almost a one to one ratio of help to customers as I did not get anything and it still took a half an hour to get six slushes. They are all in slow gear in this state. Even their speech is slow. Coming from New York, I just couldn’t help but to think that I could get more done in one lunch hour then a Texan could in an entire week. My inner snob was leaking out sideways again. I am a product of my environment as well as an accumulation of life experiences. There must be a legitimate excuse in there somewhere. Their Texas drawl was fun to listen to though. It was sort of soothing and relaxing, kind of like a massage. Before long we were at the New Mexico border and again were taken back by how things immediately looked different. New Mexico has been called the Land of Enchantment and we could see why. The surroundings immediately turned from a dusty beige to a reddish pink color. We were also crossing into New Mexico at a beautiful time of day as the sun was about to go down. The flat mountains in the distance where brilliant with color as the sun cast its last rays of the day upon them. I knew I was going to like this state. Before long, darkness took over and the stars sparkled above. All of the sudden, my husband pointed to something through the windshield. “Isn’t that the moon,” he asked. I stared for a moment and realized that it looked different from the moon on our side of the country. “I think it’s an eclipse,” he said. “How cool,” I thought to myself. What a great way to start out our three day trek in this unique state with a full lunar eclipse. We showed the kids and they were equally as amazed at what they saw in the sky. In order to expedite the process I went in ahead to check in while my husband delegated who was to bring in what. We really had this whole thing down at this point. If there were to be a competition involving people with six children traveling across country in a Dodge Durango, we would surely bring home the gold. We would win the efficiency category as we had packed light and worn the same clothes for days. We had learned to keep wet bathing suits in a plastic bag in the front of the car with the juice boxes and stale pretzels for easy access. This way, if the pool was closing in fifteen minutes we were ready to maximize the opportunity. We had crayons and coloring books tucked in the pockets of the seats and a portable DVD player with an extension cord that could reach all the way to the back seat. We were well stocked on I love Lucy and Brady Bunch DVDs as well as some personal favorites of the kids such as Tommy Boy and 13 going on 30. By the end of the trip we were all humming, “Here’s a story, of a man named Brady, who was living with three boys of his own . . . They were four men living all together, but they were all alone. Until the one day when the lady met this fellow . . .” You get the idea. That is one tough song to shake from your subconscious. We would also win the car fart category. My husband actually decided to start charging the boys each and every time they let one go as the car was beginning to smell like rotten eggs and none of us could take it anymore. Another category we would win hands down would be the how not to kill your spouse when you are together twenty-four seven category. This would be the most challenging of the competitions as all those little quirks that were once cute were now extremely annoying. My husband does this thing with his nose that has always irritated his family members but that I had never really noticed. He takes his index finger and kind of hooks it around the bridge of his nose after a series of even more annoying chain sneezes. It seemed that it was his mission in life to sneeze as much as possible during a season where absolutely nothing was growing yet to cause allergic reactions, especially in the driest part of the country. He just kept doing that hooked finger motion over and over until I thought I was going to explode. “Blow your nose or get some Benadryl!” I yelled with frustration. “Do something!” And then there was the chewing thing. He chews with his mouth open which did all but have me in a straight jacket. I felt as if I was being pecked at by a duck. I love my darling husband. Only ten more days to go . . . When I reached the counter, I was met by a native American woman and her son who was helping her. She had the most beautiful skin as did he. She informed me that the pool would be closing in fifteen minutes. What else is new. I signaled to my husband and his entourage of traveling ducklings, each clad with a suitcase on wheels, to grab the plastic bag in the front seat with the wet, now somewhat moldy bathing suits. She plucked away at her computer and then announced to me that it would be $543.00. I explained that I had pre-paid on priceline.com and that we should be all set, that I had stock in priceline.com and that my kids would all be offered high-management positions with this company upon graduation from college. She shook her head and asked if I had a major credit card I would like to put this on. I reluctantly took out my credit card, assuming that I would get a full refund once I could locate the copies of our itinerary that I had so efficiently made from my lap top prior to our departure. That’s it. My lap top. I would go up to our room and go through each confirmation e-mail one by one, then I would march my indignant self right down to the front desk and demand that the amount charged to my credit card be immediately credited. Didn’t they know that I was traveling with six children across the United States and that I did not need this kind of aggravation when there were only three short minutes of pool time left. My husband, at this point had picked up on a potential financial glitch and was getting crabbier by the second. He was tired from driving and when he gets tired everything becomes my fault, instantly. In fact, if the sun had neglected to set tonight that would have been my fault also. I sent an evil look back across the lobby of this hotel that was also on my last nerve at this late hour. The evil glance said, “Look Pal, the whole reason we are even on this trip is because of your fortieth birthday. Is wasn’t enough that I had an eighty person surprise party at a nice restaurant, complete with a live band and a limo, but I felt the urge to make your travel dream of twenty years come true and satisfy your wander lust. Now suck it up and enjoy yourself!” Not only that but I was all geared up for some gratitude-sex. I had my hopes up for being thanked all night. Oh well. Maybe tomorrow. The next morning, after our trip to the breakfast buffet of course, I ducked into the manager’s office to ask her where we should go to see some native American culture. I was also still avoiding the front desk nazi until we cleared up our little situation. The manager told me that there were Pueblos all over and suggested a few. She also suggested the Sandia Peak Tram ride which was only ten minutes away. That sounded good. Anything ten minutes away had our name on it. We climbed back into our Dodge Durango and headed for the Sandia Peak. From the bottom it really didn’t look like more than a rest area located at the base of some beautiful mountains. I went in and got our tickets. Thankfully two of my younger teenagers had become used to being twelve again as it saved us loads of money. There was no denying our nearly fifteen-year-old as he towered over me and would thank the ticket person or waitress in a polite, yet very deep, sometimes cracking voice. I couldn’t help to be proud of them for this, as I have issues from my own childhood from the diner down the street. Every Sunday we would walk down to the diner to have a little night out as a family. It was cheap, the food was good, and it gave our mother a break as she made dinner all of the other nights. I always looked forward to this. Once in a while if our dad was feeling particularly generous, my sister and I would get a quarter each to pick out a song on the juke box. I almost always picked out Styx or Rod Stewart, sometimes Meatloaf. My goofy little sister picked out whatever button she hit as she was too little to know what she was doing. That was all fun and fine at the age of nine, ten, twelve, even thirteen. It was when my dad still expected me to order from the kids menu at sixteen that this whole family bonding thing got old, not to mention embarrassing. The worst part of it was that the kid dinners were all named after animals. My sister always ordered the giraffe which was a hot dog on a toasted bun with applesauce and chips. It got to the point where the waitresses all knew her and would say, “Let me guess, the giraffe honey . . .” That was all well and good for my little sister, but I was driving and I had a boyfriend. When the waitress would look over at me I would slide as far down in my seat as I could just in case any of the in-crowd members were lingering nearby and utter, “I’ll have the monkey please . . .” The waitress would inevitably ask me to speak up when she wanted to know if I would like Jell-O or pudding for dessert as it came with it, an apparent perk to ordering dinners named after African animals. The humiliation I felt ordering the monkey took me years to work through. Fortunately our thirteen-year-old and fourteen-year-old were alright with it. Then again, there is not much shame involved in ordering a hamburger and fries. It’s just not the same as ordering the monkey. They have it so much better than I did. Whoa is me . . . Before too long we could hear the loud screech of the tram pulling into the loading dock. This was going to be so cool. I could just feel it. We gave our tickets to the Tram guy and walk on. It was mostly glass all the way around. There were only a few people riding up with us, one of the benefits to doing this trip off season. I have to say that I was patting myself on the back for that one at least three times a day. From everything people were telling me, these places, especially the Grand Canyon are so crowded in the summer time that it is difficult to move forget trying to get a picture. We had had perfect weather so far and very few people in line. They locked the doors with that metal bar and off we went, climbing, climbing, climbing . . . The Tram guy started to talk and explained that we were crossing through four biospheres. He said that it was like driving from Mexico to Alaska within twenty minutes. We were going from cactus to snow. I knew I was going to like this. All of the sudden he drew everyone’s attention to a cliff and helped guide our eyes to an eagle’s nest. The rangers had named her Earle. Just as we rolled by she swooped down from her nest. This was really neat. Shortly after Earle’s nest, the Tram guy told us to look down. Far below us laying on the rocks were the remnants of the TWA plane crash. Pieces and shadows of the tragedy still lingered within the crevices. It was difficult not to picture the plane crashing into these dramatic, unforgiving cliffs, and the faces filled with fear knowing what was about to happen. Similar to the planes being flown into the World Trade Centers, I couldn’t help to wonder what the human psyche does to survive a situation like this. Does it shut down or black out. What was going through the minds of those brave souls before the terrorists completed their evil task. What was going through the minds of the Irish immigrants down in steerage on the Titanic knowing that the last life boat had departed. I wondered what I would be like in a situation like this. Would I be strong. Would I send someone off on a life boat before myself. Could I tolerate the ice cold water, or the fear of knowing I was going to crash into a building in a plane being flown by terrorists. What about the children on board . . . As the Tram climbed up past the plane wreck, my panic subsided. It was getting colder. There were no more cactuses, or cacti. I am not sure what the plural for cactus is. There were little patches of snow and ice along the cliffs. I turned around and the view was spectacular. The Tram guy said that from here the view included over 10, 000 miles and our altitude was approximately 11, 000 feet above sea level. Wow. It was so beautiful. I love New Mexico. In the midst of my grateful, reflective thinking, we were thrown forward with a little jolt as the Tram pulled in to the dock. The Tram guy announced, “Everyone enjoy your afternoon. The last Tram leaves at 6:00 pm. If you miss it, enjoy your stay overnight and watch out for snakes. They should be waking up pretty soon . . .” No tip for him. He must have been joking. Maybe the Tram guy got some sort of sick thrill out of tormenting the tourists as there is no way that the rattlers could be arising just yet. It was too cold up here and the wind was howling. No, he must be kidding. Just in case, I don’t think I’ll pee behind any trees . . . At this point, my attention shifted from poisonous rattle snakes to my five-year-old who was inching closer to the overlook that was at least 1000 feet from the cliff sticking out below and a fence with the rails not all that close together. I grabbed her wrist, cutting off all circulation, and pulled her away from the edge of what looked to be a very, very, long way down. After successfully guiding our fearless five-year-old away from the cliff’s edge, we headed for the hiking trails. At the tippy top there was a sign for a restaurant. It was called High Finance and was conveniently located at 11,000 feet above sea level where we were. Lunch at 11, 000 feet. How cool. As we all know, our family loves to eat, so our hiking plans got temporarily derailed for pasta and turkey club sandwiches. We sat there talking and laughing as we looked out over miles and miles of brilliant landscape. I wanted to slow down time, to shrink wrap my children so they would not get another minute older, and freeze frame this particular stage of life. I was captured in the moment and I wanted to stay there forever. Life just can’t get better than this. Following our very leisurely high altitude lunch, we headed for the hiking trails. We walked past the sad chairlift as it swung gently in the wind above the snow less trails. As we are avid skiers, my oldest and I were somewhat foaming at the mouth as we pictured this exact terrain, only covered with four feet of fresh powder. Maybe next time. We continued on and my husband and I looked at each other as we were simultaneously embarrassed of how heavy our breathing was on this trail that was relatively flat. Even the five-year-old was happily skipping along collecting pine cones and stuffing them in her pockets. I tried to count the approximate times I had skied this year and questioned why I was seemingly so out of shape to be breathing so hard. We then had a sort of ah ha moment when we realized that it was the altitude that was making us feel as if we had just survived a sex-a-than minus the O’s. As our five-year-old would say, “Uh duh . . .” We decided that was enough heavy breathing for one day and headed back to the ranger’s station to catch the Tram. We timed it pretty well as we had about fifteen minutes to wait which gave us just enough time to explore the mini-exhibit inside about the different species of dinosaurs that roamed around on the same trails we had just hiked on. How cool it was to think about the timelessness of this whole experience. These huge creatures had touched the same ground that the ranger station was now sitting on millions of years ago. They then disappeared, years passed with different life forms coming and going, then the native Americans developed different cultures of their own for years and years, only to fade away. As I had this deep thought and how everything has its time, I began to hum the Lion king Song to myself, “It’s the Circle of Life . . .” Before I realized it, I had gotten a little carried away and was humming a bit louder than I had realized, kind of like a teenager plugged into an ipod not realizing the outer world. I looked up and noticed that several people were staring. One older woman glanced over with an endearing smile. She was probably saying to herself, “That poor dear. Either she forgot to take her medication or the altitude is really affecting her.” My husband was looking at me inquisitively and with a pinkish tint in his cheeks as he looked around at the starers in the ranger station. Maybe the Stare Club Members from Tennessee had a satellite office in New Mexico. We went back to the hotel. I was considering getting a dark wig and glasses as it was getting tougher to sneak by the front desk nazi. Of course, when we got back to the room the red message button was beeping. It was her all right, and she wanted to see me at the front desk when we got in. She had given me until this morning to come up with proof that I had paid for the three nights through priceline.com. I turned on my laptop and frantically checked my e-mail for proof so I could stop the front desk nazi in her tracks. I looked and looked. There were so many junk messages that it took a while. She would probably be knocking anytime now. The room was probably bugged. Then I found an e-mail that looked like the one. It had the dates, the hotel, the rates, yadda, yadda, yadda . . . but nothing saying that it was paid for. This was not good. I think that I will pour a tall glass of wine and order a couple of pizzas to be delivered. It wasn’t worth trying to sneak past the front desk nazi again just to go to Denny’s. The next morning we tipped-toed out, one by one, like the Van Trapp family sneaking out of Austria, motioning the little ones to sshhh . . . We leapt into the Durango with amazing speed and efficiency and we were off to the Jemez Pueblo. Today we would experience true native American culture with our six children following our brilliant escape from the hotel. There were many pueblos in New Mexico, but we chose to follow the suggestion of a teacher from New Hampshire that we had met at the top of the Sandia Peak, pre-humming incident of course. This is how we ended up at most places we had gone, by tips from people who had already been there. We had not been steered wrong yet. It was about an hour drive which at this point was the equivalent of a jog around the block. It got more remote by the second, and more impoverished by the millisecond. There were very tiny, shack type houses and dilapidated trailers spotted throughout the native reservations, each with at least two rusty vehicles in the front and lots of junk piled up. It was so sad that I do not have words to describe how it felt to see an entire people living in these conditions. There was very little vegetation, only red dirt, shacks, and junk-filled yards. Every once in a while we would pass a free-standing casino with lots of cars parked outside. This made me angry. Before long we reached the Jemez (pronounced hamas) pueblo. It had a visitor’s center. Inside there was a little museum that had some art displayed. There was also a short movie that the kids could watch. It had a book section with some books written by native Americans, some of them children’s stories. I bought a cookbook called the Green Chili Bible. I have never heard of green chili. I thought it was always red. It must look a little gross. From the Jemez Pueblo Visitor’s Center, we were directed to the Jemez ruins and Battleship Rock. It was a gorgeous day. The scenery was beautiful here as the terrain was very red, rugged, and steep. The ruins turned out to be very interesting. They were still quite in tact for being built around 1600. I know how much work it is just to maintain our house and it was built in the late 80’s. To think that people had built these buildings and homes with only the simplest of tools and clay was hard to imagine. I had a thought about quality, about things being made so cheaply today. Kids toys break so easily. Houses built within the last fifty or sixty years often need to have things redone and replaced, whereas two hundred year old farm houses in Vermont and the stone houses built by the French Huguenots back in the 1600’s look the same today as they did when they were built, if not better as they tend to age well. Houses built in the seventies and eighties often look run down with age instead of seasoned like the old houses of New England. Maybe people cared more back then about quality. Maybe they cared less about maximizing what they could do within a certain amount of time, thereby maximizing profits. Maybe people back in the 1600’s didn’t care about money at all, but about survival. To think that the Jemez people in New Mexico and the French Huguenots of New Paltz were building their homes at the same time, one with clay and the other with stone, both trying to establish their communities and both trying to survive. I am sure that their days were long as they lived in the moment. They had to. I again pulled myself out of deep thought and look around. There were little signs along the red clay path. They said, “please respect the snakes’ privacy and remain on the trail.” Here we go again. It was the beginning of March, a time when most snakes would still be snoring, however, it was close to 70 degrees and the sun was shining. They could be yawning and stretching at this very moment. Who was I to question Mother Nature. All of the sudden, a voice from behind me said, “Isn’t that a nice way to warn people about rattle snakes . . . respect their privacy . . . So where are you guys all from?” “Vermont,” I replied. “Really. We are from the Cape. We have run into lots of New Englanders.” I watched my new acquaintance look around at the gang and mentally count how many we had. “Six,” I said. “Wow. You don’t see too many large families these days. That’s nice. Do you home school them?” “No,” I replied, “but I get asked that question frequently.” “We are up visiting our friends from Albuquerque. They used to live on the Cape also. We come every year.” Our new friends continued to inform us of the area and things to do and see. They were very nice. They asked me what I did and told them that I write books. “Really, well I am an author also,” he said. “I am a photographer and I have written a book on studio photography. My friend over there is a co-author of a book on his experience in Vietnam.” I love traveling. I love meeting new people. What were the chances of meeting two authors in the middle of clay ruins over four hundred years old. This was all so up my alley. We ended up walking the trail with our new friends. They took a picture of all of us with my camera which was bound to come out well as he was a professional. They gave us a tip on where to go for lunch. Lunch. I love going out to lunch. It is one of my absolute favorite things to do. We arranged with our new friends to meet them at this place down the road. As we approached The Saloon, I realized that there would be a less than one percent chance that I would ever walk in to this place without a solid reference from someone I would trust to be the guardian of my children and background checks on each of the cooks. It just had that botulism kind of look. We walked in and pushed together three tables. That would be just for us. Our new friends sat at a table next to us. There were authentic pictures of native Americans on the walls, some of them off center and each with a fairly thick layer of dust. Before long we were approached by Kicking Bird armed with menus. The menu was very simple and written on what appeared to be a piece of parchment. It was yellowed and a little cracked in certain places. It had the usual kid’s menu with burgers and fries, sandwiches, soups, salads, and enchiladas smothered with green chili. What to do. Play it safe or risk spending the rest of our stay in New Mexico in the ER. I reached over and tapped one of our new friends on the shoulder, inquiring about green chili. They told me to go for it and that it would be one of the best experiences of our cross-country venture. Some levels of trust are earned over years of interaction and some acquired within a few short hours with total strangers. “Have faith,” I told myself. Kicking Bird stood there waiting for me to solidify my order as everyone else had ordered already. He began tapping his foot on the floor. It made a clicking sound. They were cowboy boots made out of some kind of reptile. They must have had a metal plate on the sole. Maybe he’s into line dancing. By the third round of taps, I bit the bullet and ordered the Ptomaine special, enchiladas smothered in green chili. When in Rome . . . We all talked while the kids colored on their placemats. The older ones played tic-tac-toe and hang-man. Soon Kicking Bird showed up with a huge tray on his shoulder. He set one burger basket after the other down in front of the kids. He set a grilled-chicken salad in front of my husband. Now it was my turn. Maybe now would be a good time to cleanse my system and fast, nothing but water. He set a plate of very foreign cuisine in front of me. Much to my surprise it wasn’t green. It was brown like regular chili that you make with that little packet of mix and hamburger. It was covering a large egg roll looking thing. I decided to take a huge bite and plunge into southwestern culture. If I die, I died happy and with courage, possibly with food poisoning. I sunk my teeth into this enchilada smothered in green chili. I sat there for a moment. I shut my eyes. Everyone of my senses felt alive and a part of this experience. I could not only taste it, smell it, see it, and hear it. I could touch it with my whole food-loving self. This could be better than sex, at the very least a tie. There must be a support group for this. “Hello. I’m Kim and I am green chili-a-holic. I thought I could manage it on my own, but now it has gotten in the way of my relationships and my job. I have realized that only a Power greater than myself can restore me to sanity.” Surprisingly, my husband thought we should continue a bit more as we had come so far and that the litter was a tell tale sign that this area saw some action. Eventually, we came across a small pool with some very green moss on the bottom. We stuck our hands in to feel the temperature. It wasn’t hot, but it was not nearly as cold as it should be on the first of March and at this altitude. We must be on the right track. My husband all of the sudden decided to run up ahead as he thought he heard something. He motioned to me to come but to have the kids wait right there for a minute. I was curious as to what he had found. My short jog had me breathing a little heavy. As I caught my breath, my darling chuckled and whispered in my ear. He said, “Don’t look now, but there is a little co-ed naked natural hot tub party going on down there.” I inched my way up to what looked like a cliff from where I had been standing and noticed that their were two tiers of rock, each with its own hot tub. Steam was rising off the water. Beneath the water was a man obviously wearing nothing. On the other side was a woman who was sunk in up to her neck looking sweaty, but very relaxed. She stood up and motioned to me to come in. The naked guy yelled up, “How are ya today? Come and down and sink in with us. The temperature is just perfect. We’ve been here since 9:00 this morning.” It was about 3:00 now, and I am wondering how anyone could sit for that long in a hot tub naked. Then I noticed a somewhat large bottle of whiskey next to them. The lady who was submerged up to her neck suddenly decided to stand up and motion us to come in. I stopped breathing for a brief moment as I stared at what had to be the largest set of breasts in existence. She should register those things as legal weapons. They were beyond huge and without proper footing and balance would surely tip her over, especially after sipping on whiskey for the better part of the morning. How do you respond to someone with gargantuan breasts when they invite you to remove all clothing and sit next to them. Not only that, but I could see her boyfriend’s winky. It wasn’t a clear view as he was underwater and we all know what happens to winkies in the water. This is probably why he remained sitting. All of the sudden, I felt words emerging from within. I said, “I was just wondering if there is an easier way to get here. We have six kids with us and the little one had a rough time.” Winky boy responded, “Oh, you have kids with you. We can get dressed for a while. Bring them on in. We all have to share this beautiful place.” Who would have guessed that naked people would be so nice. They threw on a pair of shorts, and the lady with the jugs threw on a white tank top which I was thinking wouldn’t make a tremendous difference given her particular gifts. I walked a little closer to thank them as they were here first and didn’t need to be so accommodating. As I inched closer, I noticed more nakedness in the second tier of tubs. You could see the outline of you know, more winkies, but from a distance you had to use a little imagination. Then the winky guys got closer. It was a genuine Broke back Mountain situation going on in that hot tub. This would be another cultural experience for the kids. They were quite far down there so I figured that we would live and let live. I did a quick jog to meet the kids so I could do a little explaining before they plunged into the hot tub. I explained that these people had been very considerate as they were here first so we would only stay for a short while. As far as the Broke back boys down below, I asked the kids not to stare out of respect for their relationship. I had no sooner turned around and my three boys had stripped right down to their boxer shorts and were testing the water with their toes. They sunk in up to their necks. In went my middle daughter, then my youngest. My oldest daughter sat there, holding her head steady and looking straight ahead as she took in all that she could through her peripheral vision. The Broke back situation going on way down below intrigued her. Of course being a teenager, the naked factor was interesting all by itself. All you could really see was their heads sticking out of the water and the color of skin below the water, but I could tell she was using her imagination and wondering what was going on. Her eyes were straining to see without looking. The boys had made friends with big-breasted woman and winky boy, now clothed. They were very nice, actually. Winky boy told them of the tub directly next to us. It was called the lobster pot because it was in a cave. It was hotter in there because it was enclosed. Off they went, into the lobster pot. All I could hear was their voices. Then my nine-year-old daughter followed. Her voice echoed, “Wow. It is way cool in here . . .here . . . here . . .” I couldn’t help thinking of our experiences thus far, and how we explored blindly based on tips from people we would probably never see again. This is the way to do it. This is the way to travel and the way to live.
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Articles written by Kimberly Quinn Smith